


Something New

by mouriana



Category: Forever (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5000221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouriana/pseuds/mouriana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mega changes: I should not have posted a first draft of anything. :P  I have made major revisions to this work, and as I do not wish to confuse anyone who has read what is here so far, I am posting the revision separately.  If you liked this, hopefully you will like the revision even better.  If you didn't like this, give the revision a try, as it is FAR better.</p><p> </p><p>OK, in case anyone has read anything else that I've posted, this is the official starting chapter.  This is to be written as a novel, so the character introductions may seem a little slow.  Also, it uses British English rather than American, so that should explain most of the red squiggly lines in the text.  Any other feedback would be appreciated.</p><p>ETA: I have changed this chapter and have divided things a bit differently.  If you have read it before, you don't have to read it again but you may want to, just to keep the ideas consistent. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

I knew that day was going to be a red-letter day. I could feel it in my bones. I awoke at 9:30, full of the vim and vigour of my twenty-one year old body and a promising spring day. I had no idea what would make the day promising, but I had learnt to appreciate a peppy mood whenever it came.  
I made my bed and opened my wardrobe, the contents of which represented a multitude of fashion eras and icons. I had another wardrobe filled with more modern fashion choices, but today was a standout, red-letter day. That required something special.  
Standing there in my long silk nightgown, I examined my choices with quick and decisive fingers. Dark late Victorian? Not today. Flapper? Certainly not. I giggled at the blowsy Marilyn Monroe dress, as I usually did and rarely wore. Audrey Hepburn, Katharine Hepburn, Princess Diana: no, no, no. Ah. Here we are, my Jackie Onassis ensemble. Pink polyester dress suit, pink pillbox hat, white gloves, pink handbag. Some may remark that wearing an outfit like the one she wore on the day her husband was assassinated was morbid. But my relationship with death was long and complicated, and I found it not repulsive in the least. I laid out the outfit on my bed, brushed out my short auburn hair, donned my housecoat, and went out to the sitting room, where Colin was already stretching after his morning exercise.  
“Good morning, Miss Emma.”  
“Good morning, Colin. Shall we have a proper fry up for breakfast this morning?”  
“After we are done practising your forms.”  
I sighed. “Must we? You know I haven’t the constitution for such things.”  
He did not stop his stretching as he looked at me sternly, but the small smile at the corner of his mouth revealed his affection. “Now, Miss Emma, you know as well as I that, despite my best efforts, I may not marry or have children on whom to pass the legacy. We must prepare you for the possibility of needing to defend yourself.”  
Ah, yes, the legacy. The curse of his family, really, if we were to be completely honest about it. Over two hundred years and seven generations of service to me for what? For my dying the first time to protect a servant in my household, Colin’s sixth-great-grandmother. It really didn’t seem fair to them, honestly. But having at least one person that knew my secret, that I could be open with, was a blessing that few could imagine the extent of. I was grateful for their continued loyalty throughout the generations.  
“Physical danger seems like such a silly thing to protect me against.”  
“Your ability to consistently return from the dead will not protect you from severe injury or loss of virtue. Not to mention the tangled web of explaining the disappearance of your body, or the awkward reappearances.”  
Despite my age, and the number of times I have awoken naked in some pond, lake, or river after a death, I always blush at the thought. Colin knew this, and used it to his advantage. Dying seven times had cured me of a normal fear of death, but I loathed being inappropriately dressed, and he knew it and played that card often.  
I tried to shrug his comments off, but I couldn’t lose the image in my mind. I shuddered, but I still paused before responding. “Martial arts just seem so…unladylike.”  
He laughed, though we had had this conversation multiple times since he had taken upon himself to teach me self-defence and martial arts skills three years before. I sighed and gave Colin a small, long-suffering sort of smile. He smiled back, with the firm sort of smile that said he was not accepting any of my arguments today.  
“Very well, I shall go and change, then.”  
I retreated once more to my bedroom to change my clothing to the white, loose-fitting garments he had purchased for me specifically for our daily practises. I did not like them—the practises, that is, because I was so very bad at them—but Colin had been so insistent, and I eventually came to agree with his reasoning. But knowing you should do something and enjoying doing it are two very different things indeed.  
I made my way to the large study we had mostly remade into a sort of workout or sparring room, where Colin was ready and waiting for me. His broad-shouldered, six-foot-five inches of muscle and sinew towered over my somewhat petite five-foot-seven, though I had been considered tall for a lady in my day. His dark, loose-fitting outfit only made him more formidable. The very thought that I could remotely compare to him in my ability to defend myself was laughable. But with a stoic and stern expression, he stood upon the mat and gestured me forward.  
I assumed my position, facing him from only a few feet away. We bowed to each other. And he attacked.  
The good thing was, my mind was quick enough to read the signs of where he would be and how he was planning to overtake me. The bad thing was, my body could never move as fast nor as nimbly as my mind. Over and over he would come at me, and over and over I would try, generally unsuccessfully, to block him. Every time I would fail, he would sternly say, “Again,” and we would restart. Every time I would come close to stopping him, he would praise me. “Good. You’re not cringing as much as you used to,” or, “Well done, don’t be afraid of hurting me.” He was not reluctant to praise.  
After nearly thirty minutes of this, I was eager to stop, but Colin always pushed me further than I wanted. I suppose that’s the only reason I had progressed in the area at all. Still, I thought I could cleverly make him lose his footing in his next attack and perhaps in doing so persuade him that I had done my duty for the day. As he reached for me, I turned and pulled at his arm while trying to sweep his foot off balance. But instead of simply pulling his mass off kilter, I lost my own footing and tumbled us both to the ground in a tangle of legs, Colin on top of me.  
He was self-aware enough to stop himself from crushing me, but as his face was only inches from mine and our eyes locked, his eyes went quickly from surprise to showing a hint of softness, and his gaze lingered just a little too long. It is truly amazing what an extra microsecond of pause does to a situation.  
“Colin—” I started, with just a hint of sternness in my voice.  
Immediately the light in his eyes was replaced with the usual stoicism and he leapt to his feet. He was nearly forty now, and I had always hoped that somehow by this point his love for me would have cooled. Instead, his suppression of it seemed to keep it burning low and slow, like the glowing embers after a fire which never seem to go out.  
“So sorry, Miss Emma.” He would not look at me, but he helped me to my feet.  
I brushed myself off and tried to brush away the awkwardness as well. “My fault, so sorry. The leg swipe was a bit of overconfidence.”  
He nodded and cleared his throat, still unwilling to look at me. “We can work on that tomorrow. That is enough for today.”  
I nodded and headed towards my washroom to bathe. Though my actions had achieved my intent of ending the session, I felt far from victorious. A one-way relationship is never pleasant. When you must deal with the person who feels for you this way on a close, everyday basis it is even more awkward. The fact that his feelings—and my lack of returning them--had been obvious for the past sixteen years had made them a thorn in our sides that we had become almost used to. Almost.  
Though Colin was closer to me than anyone had been in many years, and I had to admit to myself that he was very attractive, I could not love him. Not just because I had known him since the day he was born. But because I would know him until the day that he died, and I wouldn’t let myself get close enough to endure that pain ever again. Losing him as close friend would be hard enough. Losing him as a lover would be unbearable.  
I ran the shower hot, knowing that Colin would be running his much colder.  
Once I had bathed, I opted for a dressing gown so that I may quickly fix a proper fry up for breakfast. Perhaps that would return us to the usual stoic level of comfort.  
Back when I had been growing up in Suffolk under King George, a lady of my birth and status did not cook. That’s what we had servants for. And Sarah and her descendants were happy to cook for me, even when times were harder and it was not exactly practical. But I have what I like to call a very discriminating palate, and a little over a hundred and twenty years ago, Colin’s great-great grandmother Abby had quite enough of my complaints and hovering in the kitchen and told me I should just start cooking for myself. I did and I haven’t looked back.  
Perhaps I was feeling guilty, but even by my own standards I may have gone a little overboard that morning with breakfast. My homemade beans and sausage, streaky bacon, potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread from the loaf that I had made from scratch the day before, and five eggs between us. When Colin came into the kitchen, drying his short dark hair with a towel, his cold and withdrawn expression allowed a small smile through when he saw his plate on the table.  
“I hear that some people use tinned beans and bangers from the butcher,” he said as he sat and put his napkin in his lap. “Poor sods.”  
“Language,” I chided, but I smiled anyway.

“I believe today is a Jackie Onassis day.”  
Colin didn’t even slow his eating, and waited politely until he swallowed to respond.  
“The pink ensemble, then? Very becoming. But you should not wear the gloves during your lessons.”   
He had long ago become indifferent to my whims of fashion, and refused to let it affect his insistence that he prepare me for the inevitable day when I would no longer have him around to protect me.   
I pouted. “The ensemble is not complete without the gloves.”  
He looked up at me sternly while he chewed.   
I cut into my sausage more vigorously than was necessary. “Oh, very well. But I won’t like it. Keeping all of that information as bits of electricity seems far too ephemeral and I despise having to use it.”   
“You’ll have to learn far more advanced technology before you are done, Miss Emma. You still live in a world that changes all around you and you must adapt.”  
I sighed. “I know this, and I am still glad you went to the States and learnt enough at MIT to keep my electronic identity safe. It all just changes so quickly.”  
I paused then, my hands frozen mid-cut over my plate, reminiscing. But I could quickly detect it was softening him, so I pulled myself from my stupor and changed the subject. “But I shall not do my lessons until I have practised the piano for at least an hour, and that is final!”   
He smiled, but remained quiet for the rest of breakfast. He insisted that he do the washing up, so I went and dressed to my toes, complete with stockings and heels and a pink pillbox hat. It was nearly eleven now, after all, and even the most decadent of ladies should be dressed by eleven.   
I returned to the piano in the sitting room and practised Mozart and Beethoven for far longer than I had intended. Mozart has a way of sweeping me away and making me completely lose track of time. I was grateful that Colin had not interrupted, though I had played for well over two hours. Still, I felt a little greedy and thought I might also be able to sneak in some reading before Colin began my lessons. However, he detected the cover on the piano closing despite my best efforts and was standing behind me ready for my lessons before I had arisen from the bench. I reluctantly followed him to the study.  
In the corner of the study, under a short and inadequate window, was a small roll-top walnut desk I had obtained in the early part of the 20th century. I had been reluctant to allow Colin to use a drill on it to put grommets in for his electronic gadgetry, but even I had to admit that it was better than having all the cables strewn about. Colin had told me that even newer technology was surpassing the need for many of the wires, but he said for now the cables were a little more secure. It was his area of expertise and in this matter I trusted him completely.   
But on the subject of my training, I didn’t want to believe him. Planning for his eventual demise depressed me. It seemed all that I had were endings, or planning for endings. Never any beginnings. He was only thirty-eight. We shouldn’t have to do this yet. I didn’t want to do this yet. But ever since his parents had died in the accident that had also taken one of my lives ten years ago, he had been increasingly insistent on preparing me for the possibility of him dying any day.   
I was sitting at the desk with him directing me from behind for only a quarter hour when I stopped typing and put my hands in my lap.  
“What is it? You haven’t finished routing through those other IPs. You need to route through more IPs than that to really hide your tracks, Miss Emma—”  
“I want to go out.”  
“What?”  
I swivelled the desk chair around to face him.  
“I want to go out. Both of us. For dinner, maybe a show. I know a marvellous spot on Savile Row, and then we can perhaps walk about a bit. We haven’t been out in weeks, and we haven’t gone out just for a nice time in well over a year. Today is a red-letter day and it can’t live up to its potential if we stay trapped here in the flat.”  
He cocked his head and eyed me suspiciously. “Are you wishing to set me up again?”  
I had gone to elaborate lengths in the past to have us ‘run into’ nice young ladies I thought he would be attracted to while out. And while most of the ladies had found him very attractive and cordial, he refused to be wooed. It didn’t take many times for him to realise I had been directing the encounters, though he never figured out how I had done it.   
“I promise I have been in contact with no one. I only wish to go out. Please.”  
How many times my looks affected his decisions, I had no idea. I usually put great effort into not using them to persuade him, but when one felt as he did, such an influence was impossible to completely avoid. But this time I felt for it was for his good as much as mine, and I used them. I didn’t want to plan for his demise. I didn’t want him to waste his youth, preparing me for his death. I wanted him to enjoy himself for once. And if that meant getting his heart involved enough to overcome his head, that is what I would do.  
His resolve was strong enough that he didn’t crack until I took a hold of his hand.   
“Ah, very well. Perhaps we can go out for tea and then to a show.” His smile was tender enough that I knew the next words, though delivered sternly, mattered little. “If you show me you can erase five minutes of CCTV footage without leaving a trace.”   
Though I had made the bargain for him, I found more pleasure in fulfilling my end of the bargain than I had expected. It became a game, rather than a ghastly duty. And though I fumbled through the steps in easily five times the amount of time it would have taken Colin, I finally erased five minutes of empty footage from a barren loading dock in Manchester, then sat back in my chair triumphantly.   
Colin nodded and smiled, thrilling me with his approval.   
So I refreshed my dark lipstick, checked my auburn ringlets and re-pinned the pillbox hat, and put on the requisite white gloves. When I came back out to the sitting room, Colin was already waiting at the door, looking dapper in a navy pinstripe suit that accented the ghostly pale blue of his eyes quite well. His look when he saw me was rather disappointed.  
“Oh, Emma, I thought you would change for going out. You will only draw attention to yourself in that.”  
“Do not scold me as a mother when her child wishes to go about in striped trousers and a polka-dotted blouse. Today is a red letter day, and I have chosen to dress as Jackie Onassis for it, so your attempts to persuade me are futile. I shall see it to the end.”  
He sighed, but knew my stubbornness was far stronger than his own.  
“Would you like me to get the car, or would you prefer to walk today?”  
“A walk would be divine, Colin. It’s not that far, and the weather is fine.”  
He extended his elbow to me, which I took with a smile. Then, despite my claims about the weather, he picked up his umbrella from the stand by the door on our way out. Always prepared, my Colin was.  
Dinner was delightful at the little French restaurant on Savile Row I had chosen beforehand. I rarely tolerated what passes as dining out in London these days, but this particular restaurant was one of the few favourites that could hold a candle to my own skill. It was three-thirty by the time we arrived, an unusual time for a meal, but ideal for getting my favourite table by the window. Colin hated it when we sat there, especially when I was dressed in ‘one of your outfits,’ as he put it. He said it drew attention to me. But I loved to watch the people as they passed, guessing at their lives and purpose. It was almost like I could live through them, sometimes.  
Conversation with Colin was comfortable and familiar, though mundane. He spent most of every day with me, in our flat, and since we rarely went out, there was little new to stimulate our conversations. I smiled and laughed at appropriate moments in the same old stories and anecdotes, but I found myself already yearning to be outside. The table by the window was already whetting my appetite for more stimulation. When I stay inside most days, I can make myself content with books and music and the like. But when I go out, it reminds me of everything I am missing.   
“What time is it?” I finally asked Colin after a long bit of silence while waiting for the crème brulée.   
“Quarter of five.”   
“I don’t believe the show starts until half past six. I would like to go for a stroll until at least six.”  
His dark eyebrows curved, crinkling his brow and showing his displeasure. “A full hour? We’re in central London, Miss Emma, there are cameras everywhere. I’m not sure that would be prudent.”   
I knew he had my best interests in mind, but every second made me more anxious to simply gad about town.  
“I don’t feel like being prudent today, Colin. It’s a Jackie Onassis day. One cannot always be prudent on a Jackie Onassis day.”  
I was firm in my words, but I followed up with a smile and a “please” that I knew would melt any resistance.   
The dessert came then, allowing Colin a distraction that helped him avoid my eyes and look not quite so easily swayed by me.   
“Very well. But we’re avoiding all of the heavy tourist spots.” He did love to add extra little criteria to make himself feel more proactive and less easily swayed as my ‘safety engineer,’ as he liked to call it. I grinned like a schoolgirl as I broke the crust on my custard.  
It actually took over twenty minutes to leave the restaurant. A perfect custard cannot be rushed. Colin kept checking his watch and the sky as we left the restaurant, hoping, I am positive, for time or rain to interfere with our little jaunt. But I was quite determined, and hooked my arm around his elbow and tugged.   
“Come along, Colin, there are some fine art galleries just a little north west of here. Perfectly low-key.”  
He grunted, but let me lead him along Savile Row up towards Clifford Street.   
After only a dozen yards, I noticed there were no more cars moving past us.  
“That’s odd.”  
That’s all it took for Colin to stop and begin scanning the area for threats. “The street cameras are all shut off.”   
I looked up and saw that the cameras, which normally had at least some with small red lights on them, were all dim and unmoving. Colin was already trying to pull me backwards, the way we had come. But in the fading evening light, I made out one car and one car only, ahead on Clifford Street, stopped but running in front of an alleyway. I resisted Colin’s pull.  
“Something bad is happening,” I insisted. “We must try to stop it.”  
Colin continued to tug at my arm. “You can’t get involved, Emma. The risk of—”  
I pulled my arm out of his. “My conscience will not allow that another person be hurt because I could not be inconvenienced.”  
As I turned back towards the suspicious vehicle, a tall figure ran out of the alley carrying a bag and something long. He threw the items into the waiting vehicle, quickly climbed in after them, and the car sped off, racing past us with tinted windows that allowed us to see nothing within. I began running towards the alleyway, noting that down the road, someone was taking barricades down that had been blocking the entrance to this one-way street. That explained the lack of cars.   
Before I reached the opening to the alleyway, the stench of blood and the emptying of bowels was enough to tell me that someone was dead within. I turned to Colin, who had run up right behind me. “Give me your small torch, Colin. And call the constables.”  
He pulled a very small torch from his inner breast pocket and handed it to me, while pulling his mobile from his trousers pocket and giving me a very stern ‘this is going to end badly’ look. He was very adept at multitasking.   
I took the torch, turned it on and followed its beam into the narrow alley. The angle and height of the surrounding buildings blocked the setting sun quite completely, engulfing the alley with darkness, but it wasn’t hard to see the body on the ground about ten feet in. I pulled a handkerchief from my breast pocket and put it over my nose and mouth to block some of the smell. Alleys in this part of London were typically kept at least moderately clean, but even I was surprised at the lack of anything—most particularly useful clues—on the ground around the body. There wasn’t even a skip down this alleyway, so the stench was entirely from the body. In the light from the torch, it was easy to see why. The well-dressed decedent had met quite a violent end. His head had been completely taken off.   
Colin was right, of course. Getting mixed up in a murder investigation was the last thing I needed to preserve my anonymity. But we had been there, and had seen what we had seen for a reason. Whether through a higher power or the machinations of men, I am not much of a believer in coincidences. And currently, my regular life was seeming duller by the moment.   
I scoped the alleyway with the torch foot by foot, soon noting that the head was nowhere to be seen. That would explain the bag the tall man had thrown into the car. I gingerly began stepping around the body, careful not to disturb any of the blood spatter.   
“The police are on their way, Miss Emma.”  
“Mmm-hm.”  
“Miss Emma, you really should come out of there.”  
“His head’s off, Colin. Who would take someone’s head off, in an alley in London, in this day and age?” I crouched by the neck, examining the wound carefully with the torch. “Didn’t use a very sharp blade, either.” I muttered these last words, more to myself than for Colin’s benefit, so he surprised me when I heard his voice right behind me.  
“Please, Miss Emma, we must leave the alley.”  
“Don’t step in the detritus, Colin!” I said sternly, partially to avoid his plea.  
“I was military police for the Royal Marines, Miss Emma, I know a bit about investigatory practises. Which is why I must insist that we leave the alley right now.”  
“Here now, what’s going on there!” It was a constable, hopefully one coming from Colin’s call and not just on his regular rounds, in which case we would have to explain everything again. Colin turned and, as careful as a cat, walked towards the constable while telling him what we had seen.  
“We saw a tall male fleeing the alley in a black, late-model sedan and ran up and found this man here, dead.”  
“What were—here now, what’s she doing?”  
“Gathering information. There was no number plate on the vehicle, and—”  
“Get away from there, miss! That’s a crime scene!”  
I slowly stood back up and turned toward the constable, uncovering my nose just long enough to address him. “I do apologise, sir. Just trying to do my duty.”  
He was motioning rather frantically for me to come out of the alley. “Begging your pardon, but your duty does not include gawking at dead people, miss. Please come out. Now!”  
I huffed through my nose and carefully made my way out of the alley to stand docilely next to the constable. Colin was giving me a stern ‘I told you so’ look from behind the constable while the officer berated me politely and took my statement. I also tried to give him my observations about the weapon used, the blood spatter, and the identity of the victim, but he didn’t seem very interested in that information. He did, however, ask me one personal question before going off to call in the detective inspector.  
“Miss, if I may ask, why—?” He motioned to all of me. I politely motioned to my 1960s-era pink dress suit.   
“Oh, this? Why not?” And I smiled at him ever so sweetly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of the investigation, as told from John Watson's POV.

I have decided that if I am to ever keep anything hidden from Sherlock Holmes, one thing is for certain: I cannot keep it on a computer. Even now that I am back with Mary, I half suspect he has put some sort of thing on my laptop to read everything I put there. I already know he has figured out all my passcodes. So here I am, having to write some things out longhand, just to keep them away from his prying eyes. At the very least, he would have to not only get his physical hands on this little diary, but he’d have to read my doctor’s handwriting, which is quite atrocious.   
You know, even though he is my best friend, he can be quite a cock sometimes.   
But I had to write my observations of recent events somewhere he couldn’t readily observe and over-analyse and go into denials and the whole lot. And I just didn’t want to hear it. Because sometimes I think I see and understand things he doesn’t. Yes, I said it.   
At any rate, it all started when I got a call from Sherlock in the evening saying that there had been a beheading in central London, and would I like to join him?  
“You want me to join you at a beheading?”  
“Well, it’s already been done, but Lestrade has called and asked me to take a peek at it. Really only a six, of course, but—”  
“A six? You consider a beheading in central London only a six? With the possible terrorist implications alone—”  
Sherlock immediately tsked my theory away. “It’s in the art district, John, less of a political statement than artistic expression, I am sure. You really can’t rank a murder merely on method of death.”  
We had seen some most interesting cases based on single stabbings, so I supposed he was right. “But if it’s only a six—”  
“I’m bored, John. I’ve resorted to playing Cluedo with Mrs. Hudson twice in the last week. Twice! If you had been here, I would have had you fetch my revolver.”  
I chose to ignore that last statement and agreed to join him.   
I made my way into London and met Sherlock at Baker Street. He filled me in on the information he had been given while we took a cab to the crime scene.   
“Beheaded in an alley, head nowhere to be found, but the body is well-dressed and still in possession of various valuables, though the identification was gone. So obviously personal. Two witnesses, but they couldn’t identify the attacker as it happened at dusk and they were quite a few metres away.”  
He seemed almost down.   
“You must be quite bored to be responding to a six. Maybe you should find other hobbies besides crime.”   
He looked at me as if I were insane. Which is only marginally better than his usual looking at me as if I were an idiot.  
I shrugged it off. “Just saying, you already know the violin, maybe you could play, you know, for fun, instead of just to help you think about crime. Or you could collect something.”  
“I already have collections.”  
“Body parts, poisons, and types of tobacco ash do not count.”  
“As if you make the rules.”  
As we approached the crime scene, Greg Lestrade approached us, apparently having arrived himself only moments before.   
“Oddest thing, Sherlock. I thought you would want to see it.”  
“I’ve seen beheadings before. They are not really—”  
“Not the beheading, Sherlock. The witnesses. I haven’t talked to them myself yet, but Whitney tells me the girl alone is quite peculiar.”  
As we approached the alley, I could see them in the light of the streetlights, as well as lights from the police cars and forensic lights surrounding the scene. A behemoth of a man, dressed sharply in a blue suit and tie and a long tan overcoat, standing near the wall with huge arms crossed in front of him. His face was stern, his eyes wary. Aside from the suit and a short, neat haircut, he looked more like a suspect than a witness.   
But the young lady next to him, well, Lestrade was correct about her peculiarity. She was incredibly pretty, but dressed in some pink polyester outfit right out of a 1960s period piece, complete with one of those little round hats and matching pink handbag that she held with dainty white gloves. She kept looking back to the alley where the forensics team were starting to gather, and the most odd thing about it was that she looked as undisturbed and patient as someone queueing for a picture show. Utterly and completely unperturbed.  
I looked at Sherlock, whose furrowed brow told me he was studying her as well.  
“What did Whitney tell you about her?” His eyes didn’t leave her, though the question was clearly directed at Lestrade.   
“Said she was poking around the body when he got here. Had to practically pry her off of it. Can’t find the murder weapon or the head anywhere about, and we think she was too small to do the deed herself, but that giant of a man with her is more than enough to get the job done, and he seems quite loyal to her. Says he’s her manservant. Still, they were right there with the body and we couldn’t find any blood on either of them, not even on her white gloves or her hands beneath, despite her being right in there. So it does seem a bit odd, wouldn’t you say?”  
While he spoke, the witnesses caught eye of us. The man’s glower increased in intensity, though I hardly thought it possible. The woman seemed almost to fluster for a moment and clutched her handbag a little more firmly, then took a deep breath and looked away. It seemed she was more nervous from our arrival than from the decapitated man in the alley behind her. Suspicious.  
Sherlock walked straight towards her, addressing her when he was still two metres away.   
“Miss—?”  
“Bedingfield.” She had recovered from her nervousness remarkably quickly, and now seemed extremely unimpressed. “Emma Bedingfield, Mr. Holmes.”  
She held out her hand politely, but Sherlock just stared at it for moment before shaking his head as though it were a distraction. She brought the offered hand back to her handbag and smiled a prim little smile at him.   
“What were you—”  
“We had just had an early supper at Le Coq au Vin over on Savile Row and were going for a short walk before attempting to catch a show at 6:30, when our attention was piqued by the dearth of traffic on a street that had been quite busy not thirty minutes earlier. It was too late in the day for day work to be starting, and too early for night work, so I thought it odd. That’s when we noticed the dark sedan parked and running right in front of the alley here.”  
She pointed to each item or area as she described them, with dainty white-gloved fingers.   
“A large man—I would say nearly as large as Colin—” she motioned to her compatriot, who gave her a look both annoyed and worried as she did so. She took a split second to wrinkle her nose at him and continued. “Came running from the alleyway carrying a long object which I am assuming to be an old museum-grade claymore, and a sack, which I am assuming carried Charles Macintosh’s head, as well as other readily identifiable information.”  
The sounds of cameras and people collecting information came to a complete stop, which made the barricaded street eerily silent.   
“Pardon, how did you know who the man was? Donovan, was there any identification on the body?”  
Sergeant Donovan, who had been taking notes, had come out of the alleyway to stare at our witness. “Not a scrap, sir. And she didn’t say anything about a—what did she call it? A claymore?—in her earlier statement.”  
Miss Bedingfield let out a tiny sound that sounded almost like a sigh.  
“Indeed, Sergeant, a claymore is a Scottish greatsword. A large, two-handed broadsword. And I didn’t realise it must have been a claymore or something akin to it until I examined the body and thought for a bit, I do apologise.”  
She began carefully stepping towards the body, careful to avoid all of the evidence and people and evidence-gathering equipment. All of us followed behind in her wake. When she reached the head—or what used to be the head—of the body, she crouched and pointed toward the fatal wound with dainty fingers.  
“Here—may I have some light please?” Half a dozen torches suddenly illuminated the neck like the sun. “Thank you—here you can see that the head was severed with something that was somewhat sharp, but not very usefully sharp, like a proper kitchen knife or sword in regular use. See how some of the tissue was torn, rather than cut? But there was no hesitation, or second blows. So, combined with the size of the long object we saw the assailant fleeing with, I am guessing it to be a claymore, as those were really the largest swords we have seen in the United Kingdom, and common enough to have poorly-sharpened specimens all over Britain. It also indicates a sizable amount of strength in the assailant, to cut through a man’s neck in one blow with a less-than-razor-sharp sword.”  
She paused to pull her handkerchief from her breast pocket and put it over her nose and mouth. “I apologise, I find myself sensitive to the smell.”  
“Now, as I had an opportunity to examine the body, I noticed a few things. First,” she stood and walked towards the feet, and everyone parted for her. “The pattern of wear on the bottom of his shoes shows that he was right-hand dominant, didn’t wear the shoes often, and wore them primarily for dancing, probably ballroom. The shoes themselves are of a style at least seven years old, with an amount of wear that indicates that he was not a professional dancer, but he probably went dancing more often than the average person. That, combined with the very fashionable and non-rented tuxedo he is wearing would indicate he was probably someone of some importance, who was invited to formal occasions with some regularity.”  
I pulled my attention away with some effort, taking a moment to glance at the entranced faces around me. That is, except for her servant, whose arms were positively clenched against his body and whose lips had become a very fine line. Sherlock’s face was almost confused. It couldn’t have been the scene which confused him. It had to be her. I know in my time with him, the only persons we had dealt with who had possessed this level of acumen were psychopaths or master manipulators or both. It was unsettling to think there may be yet another one.  
She was now focused on the hand. “Now, see that pattern of wear on his right middle finger? Indicates a ring, naturally, but who of this man’s station would wear a ring, and only on his right middle finger? But there’s one more clue.”  
She pulled the handkerchief away from her face for a moment. “Do you smell that? It’s already fading, but there’s the faint smell of chrysanthemum under all of the—effluvium. Few flowers have a strong enough smell to be able to detect above all this, but that is one of them.” She put the handkerchief back over her nose. “Many people wear boutonnieres, but usually carnations or roses or other such flowers. Not chrysanthemums. Except MP Charles Macintosh. The Scottish Member of Parliament, who traditionally wore the ring of his family crest on his right middle finger and had a fund-raising ball at the Royal Academy of Arts tonight.”  
“This is a Scottish MP?! Oh, God!” cried Lestrade, and immediately pulled out his phone. All of the other officers immediately sprang back into action, writing things down or gathering more evidence, while Miss Bedingfield quietly excused herself to go just outside the alley with her servant, where she again seemed content with standing and waiting.   
I looked at Sherlock, who was now crouched down, carefully examining the body himself.   
“Well?” I asked.  
He took a few moments to respond.  
“She’s right.” He kept pulling out his magnifying lens, examined the wound on the body for a few moments more, then looked carefully at the bottom of the body’s shoes. “She’s right about everything.”  
I cocked an eyebrow. Sherlock Holmes had just been scooped. By a young lady in a pink polyester dress suit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediate reactions of Colin and Emma after finding the murder, from Emma's POV.

After a bit more questioning and official taking of statements and the regular rigmarole—at least I assume it was regular, I hadn’t had dealings with the police in quite some time—Colin and I made our way back to our flat. It was late by then—well past eleven—but I was positive that was not the reason why Colin had hardly said a word to me for a number of hours. When we entered the lift to our flat, he finally spoke.  
“That was far beyond merely doing your duty to queen and country, Miss Emma. I fear this will not be the end of this, not by a long shot. Not after you insisted on being such an exemplary witness tonight.”  
I took a moment to respond, trying to school my emotions appropriately and show the proper amount of contrition. After all, it was my anonymity we were trying to protect, not Colin’s. Colin’s record was clean and, unlike mine, normal in every way.   
“Perhaps I could have been more docile, Colin. I apologise.”  
We were both silent again for the next three floors, but I couldn’t help but replay the events of the evening in my mind with just a little bit of a thrill. Perhaps it wasn’t as wise as I had thought to while away my days in our flat, reading and studying various things rather than going out upon occasion. The ennui seemed to make me a little too eager for a bit of excitement.  
It wasn’t until the doors to the lift opened and Colin’s voice began to berate me that I realised that I had actually rolled up upon my toes with excitement.   
“And when he arrived! My god, Emma, you would think you were a teenage girl at a One Direction concert!”  
I tried to ignore his precise implications. “A who concert?”  
“A One— oh, it doesn’t matter, the point is, you were very pointedly showing off like a fangirl!”  
“What’s a fangirl?” I asked as I unlocked the door to our flat.  
“It’s someone who has a complete lack of decorum or restraint when displaying their star struck regard for another person.”  
Now I knew he was being dramatic to raise my ire, but it still chafed, and I became quite bristly.   
“No, I wasn’t. I was just trying to be helpful.” I put my keys and handbag on the hook by the door and began unpinning my hat, still facing into the flat with Colin behind me.  
Colin’s voice became a high, mocking tone. “Oh, Mister Holmes, I’m just going to introduce myself to you because I recognise you from the papers. Now look at what I can do!”  
I spun around. “Colin Moss Timothy Gidney, you are blowing this entire evening out of proportion!”  
“Am I? We were at the scene of a beheading tonight, Emma! A full-on decapitation! And as we were coming up the lift, you kept grinning like a ruddy Cheshire cat!”  
That knocked the wind clear out of my sails. “Did I really?”  
My softer tone tripped up his anger as well, though it took him a few more minutes to step down from his proverbial ledge.   
“Once or twice, yes.”  
My hands, now gripping my hat, hung from arms attached to sagging shoulders. “Oh, that was most—oh. Oh, Colin, I am sorry.” Implications of my imprudent behaviour, both for my own anonymity and Colin’s feelings, rolled over me in waves of regret. I took a deep breath and sat down heavily in one of the overstuffed chairs that faced the fireplace.  
“I did just introduce myself to him, didn’t I? Very forward of me. Imprudent, Emma!” I was muttering more to myself now than to Colin, but he sat in the chair across from me and leaned forward with his arms on his knees in a comforting gesture. He could rarely stay angry with me for long.  
“He is rather famous, Miss Emma. Don’t berate yourself too harshly. They may never find a suspect, then our witness statements could just languish in an unsolved case file somewhere, never to see the light of day again. All is not lost.”  
I smiled weakly at him. “Is letting a killer escape my only hope now? How very low I have fallen.”  
“Miss Emma, that’s not what I meant—”  
“I know what you meant, Colin. It is a unique conundrum I have, is it not? Every record of me is a lie. From the gravestone in St. Margaret’s cemetery to my current voter identification and passport, we have had to create lie after lie to cover the truth that I am two hundred and twenty nine years old. And because of that, I have to hide from everyone like I have done something wrong. What have I done wrong, Colin? Why must I be punished? I’m so tired of hiding!”  
Colin’s ire was completely gone now, replaced with a wrinkled brow over sympathetic but powerless eyes.   
“Maybe we should go out more. You haven’t had that much excitement in quite a while, it was natural to get carried away—”  
Now I was getting bristly again. “Don’t act like I wasn’t responsible for my actions, Colin. I am not some idiot incapable of bearing responsibility for myself.” I sighed then, making myself calm down. “The consequences will come, and I will deal with them. If I must make sacrifices to make sure this murderer is brought to justice, so be it. And if in the end I must change my identity to avoid too much suspicion and investigation, I will do so. Though—” I paused, looking about the room, full of books and music and memories. “—I would be loathe to leave this flat.”  
I looked at Colin again. For such a large and imposing man, he could definitely hold a look that held a question he was afraid to ask.  
I smiled gently at him. “If I had to leave again, would you be willing to join me? This is the only home you’ve ever really known.” I already knew his answer, but I knew he needed reassurance.  
His smile, though he tried to suppress it, gave his answer long before his words did. “Of course, Miss Emma. I would be happy to.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's reactions to the initial crime scene and the start of the full investigation the following morning. From Watson's POV.

Sherlock was quiet during the cab ride back to the flat, with the pensive look on his face that told me not to say anything, or he would bite my head off. But when we exited the cab in front of 221 Baker Street and he moved quickly towards the door as I paid the cabbie, I had to speak up.  
“Sherlock, you can’t just run off to your room in silence like this. I need to go home, but you need to tell me what we are doing first.”  
He stopped at the door without turning towards me, his hand frozen on the key in the lock. “I’ve got to think, John.”  
“About what?” I approached quickly, knowing he could slip into the building and leave me out in the cold if I didn’t. “About the beheading of an MP, or a pretty witness who happened to steal your dramatic thunder at a crime scene?”  
He turned the key and opened the door. “Both.”  
“Sherlock,” I put my hand against the door to stop him from closing it. “Do you feel threatened by her?”  
The look on his face mocked the very suggestion, but still, he paused before responding. “As a rival consulting detective? No. In other ways, however—that is why I must think.”  
It’s at times like this I really hated being away from Baker Street. I lived elsewhere. I had a wife waiting for me at home, and I needed to go. But not only was the excitement invigorating, but Sherlock needed me. Not for the investigation of the crime. But because he can become somewhat—lost—when his attention is divided. And right now, it was most definitely divided.   
“Do you need me to stay, Sherlock? Because I can stay if you need me to.”  
He looked a little puzzled. “No, John, I just told you I needed to think.”  
I sighed in frustration. He really didn’t know what he needed sometimes. “When do you want me to meet you and where, then?”  
That was a much easier question for him to answer. “Meet at Lestrade’s office in the morning at 9. They should have some canvassing and other boring parts done by then and be able to give us a bit more information.”  
He was allowing Lestrade’s office do a lot of the footwork on the case? That meant he was going to be doing some different investigating on his own. Inside I groaned, but externally I just removed my hand from the door.  
“I guess I’ll see you in the morning, then.”  
“Goodnight, John.”

When I arrived at Lestrade’s office the next morning I had to wait out in the division room. Lestrade’s door was closed, with him talking to Sergeant Donovan within. Emma Bedingfield and Colin Gidney were talking outside his office. While her servant was dressed much the same as the night before, though in a grey rather than blue suit, she was dressed in a much more modern style. A loose emerald green blouse tucked in at her narrow waist to flared off-white trousers, with her short auburn hair in a haphazard loose curl that seemed to be natural, and no make-up or jewellery. The only item of note was a pale green lace stole around her shoulders. She seemed rather to be trying hard to shatter the prim and neat impression she had made the evening before, but her natural beauty was striking enough that I feared it would do the opposite. Her face was very serious as she spoke to her servant, and her fingers seemed to be rapidly tapping out some sort of rhythm on her thigh. I was about to approach and speak with her, when I felt Sherlock’s coat brush against my arm.   
I turned to face him, but he seemed almost ignorant of my presence, intensely focused instead on Miss Bedingfield. I watched him for a moment, then cleared my throat to try to gain his attention. Nothing.   
“Sherlock.”  
“Mozart, if I’m not mistaken.”  
“Pardon?”  
“Her hand. She is apparently a pianist, and quite an accomplished one, because I don’t think she’s even aware of the fingerings she is tapping out on her leg.”  
I turned back to Miss Bedingfield. I could see her left hand, and though I couldn’t recognise the fingerings as Sherlock did, I did start to see a rather musical rhythm to them, but how he could have gone from musical to Mozart was still beyond me.   
“How in the world could you guess Mozart?”  
“First, probability. Out of all the composers of piano pieces, there are only a few which are commonly played by amateurs. Second, rhythm. The rhythm which she is tapping out denotes something probably more in the Classical period. Lastly, style. Note how light and playful her hand seems as she taps out the notes? That is most probably not Beethoven, as he is generally far more bombastic. Much more indicative of Mozart.”  
“Ah. Wait—you said she was an amateur. If she really plays that well, how can you guess she is an amateur?”  
Sherlock drew his attention away from her with a shake of his head. “I could find no record of her playing before any paid audience whatsoever. In fact, from what I could find, she is of no profession at all.”  
I turned to him with a bit of surprise. “No profession?”  
“No. She appears to be an heiress to a decent sized estate, and owns a residential building in London from which she derives some income, and where she lives with her servant. Nothing else on her. No living family, no university education, no criminal records, nothing but a voter identification and passport. Not even a driving license. Even my homeless network could find little to nothing. Colin Gidney, however, is a former marine and has a doctorate in computer security from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, a clean driving record, a car registered in his name, and yet has been steadily employed by her, and solely by her, since he was released from the military after his parents died in an automobile accident nearly ten years ago. Very little else, but more than I could find on her.”  
I turned back to the two, still conversing in hushed tones. “Odd.”  
“Indeed.”  
Lestrade opened the door then and beckoned us all to come into his office.   
“I hope no one minds, but I’ve asked that Miss Bedingfield and Mister Gidney listen in on this part of the investigation. I know it’s not standard procedure, but we haven’t any suspects at this point in time, and their input was incredibly valuable last night, so I thought they might be able to offer further insight in the initial stages of the investigation.”  
He looked directly at Sherlock and seemed to overemphasise the words not standard procedure, so I surmised that Sherlock may have influenced that decision.   
“Now, our investigation thus far turned up little but more questions. According to witnesses, Mister Macintosh arrived at the Icebar a bit east of Savile Row around four in the evening. He has been there before, but was not a regular. Witnesses say he met no one there, had two drinks and seemed a bit nervous, then left around four thirty. His body was found, as you know, at ten after five. We don’t know if he left by car or by foot, or what he was doing in those forty minutes. His assistant said he was due to arrive at the Royal Academy of Arts, quite nearby, by six-thirty, to prepare for a fundraiser for refugee children that evening. There are also multiple witness accounts that Clifford Street was barricaded off where it joined with New Bond, just a street from the crime scene.”  
“What information was gathered from the cameras in the area?” asked Sherlock.  
“This is where it starts getting really odd,” answered Lestrade, and he laid out a magnified paper image of that particular area of London on his desk, with a number of X’s marked in red on it, all around the area in question. “For a half-kilometre radius all around the crime scene, including the area around the Icebar, all of the street cameras were shut off from four-thirty until quarter after five.”  
The eyebrows of everyone listening went up—except for those of Miss Bedingfield and Mister Gidney.   
“Our computer experts are working on it, but as near as they can tell so far, there was a trojan put into the system designed to shut the system down for those specific times, then turn everything back on and delete itself. They don’t know if they will ever be able to tell where it came from. So this appears to have been well planned, down to the minute.”  
Lestrade kept looking to Sherlock, occasionally pausing, expecting him to burst in with some brilliant and condescending observation. Honestly, I was surprised he hadn’t done so already. When I glanced at him, he was just sitting there, staring into space, with his hands pressed together in front of his face as was his custom when he was deep in thought.   
After Lestrade’s final statement, it became very quiet in the room, and soon all eyes were on my friend.  
“Sherlock?” I finally asked.  
He didn’t respond for another moment, then shook his head again, as if he had been lost in his mind palace. But I noticed his eyes had darted to Miss Bedingfield for a moment, and I wondered if he had been paying attention to the case at hand at all.  
“Hm?” Oh, yes. I believe he was taken there in the car that took away his assailant. The crime was too well-planned and personal to have been a complete stranger, and the precise timing suggests that the victim knew of at least a scheduled meet up. Specific streets where the cameras were shut off indicate a motor route from the Icebar to the crime scene, rather than one on foot.” He reached forward and traced a route one would have to take through the one-way streets to get from the Icebar to the crime scene, and indeed, that entire route was the focus of what was shut down. But then Sherlock leaned back in his chair and offered no further observations. It was very unlike him. Then he looked at our visitors and said something that started to clarify the situation a bit.  
“I would like to hear what Miss Bedingfield has to say about the subject.”  
She had been on the edge of her seat, looking closely at the map, but looked up at Sherlock and blushed slightly when he called her out.  
“Your assessment seems accurate. I have nothing more to add to it.” She slid back in her chair and put her hands neatly in her lap. It seemed the previous night’s impression of her physical appearance was not the only image she was trying to eradicate. Mister Gidney’s huge arms were folded in front of his chest and his face was a stone slab. He would not be offering any more information, either.   
There were a few more moments of awkward silence in the room. Lestrade’s eyes kept darting between Sherlock and Miss Bedingfield, while Sherlock’s stayed on Miss Bedingfield and she casually avoided all eye contact with anyone. Finally Greg looked at me, begging me to make something happen.  
“Ah, Sherlock and I can…er…investigate the…um…”  
“Mister Macintosh’s parliamentary offices,” said Sherlock, as if it had been obvious.  
“Yes, Macintosh’s parliamentary offices.”  
Greg’s relief was palpable. “Good. Off with you then. Miss Bedingfield, Mister Gidney, you are free to leave, but do let us know if you think of anything helpful.” He seemed a bit disappointed as he said the last words.  
Everyone rose, and Miss Bedingfield cordially shook hands with Greg Lestrade, then left the room with Colin Gidney right on her heels. Sherlock and I followed close behind.  
“Miss Bedingfield,” said Sherlock as soon as we were all outside the office. She turned around politely. “I was hoping you would have more insights into the case this morning.”  
She smiled, but it was a hollow, deflective smile. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mister Holmes. I fear any particular acumen ascribed to me last night was more of an anomaly than a regular occurrence.”   
Sherlock cocked his head slightly. “I wouldn’t bank on that. He eyed her carefully, then he picked up her hand, making her blush profusely, but he merely examined it carefully. “Your looks suggest a rather—genteel domesticity. Piano, knitting—” he brought her long, delicate fingers up to his nose and sniffed. “—reading of books, physical rather than electronic, and—” he sniffed again. “Baking? But your odd accent and your consistent use of Imperial measurements suggests a background somewhat different from what your records suggest.”  
She pulled her hand back with some force. “I beg your pardon, sir, I was educated by a governess and private tutors, rather than the public schools, and she was nothing if not—consistent—in her use of Imperial measurements, so it is a hard habit to break. And I was raised in Suffolk. We speak a bit differently there.”  
She began to turn away, then, to my surprise, turned back to him. “And you, sir, put up emotional walls through abrasive behaviour and pretentious pronouncements, choosing to feed sociopathic tendencies rather than risk being hurt. This leaves your knowledge of things is lopsided, puts you off balance.” Then she surprised me even more by picking up his hand, examining it and smelling it. “You play a string instrument, most likely the violin, as I could never see someone so eager to shine playing a background instrument like viola. You occasionally indulge in clandestine cigarettes, despite the nicotine patches. And you dabble entirely too much with dead things.” She dropped his hand then with almost a disdain, and the room was silent. Even those of the division who were seated within earshot had become silent. If I hadn’t been so shocked myself, I might have laughed. Instead, we only watched as she turned on her heels, slipped her arm into Mister Gidney’s, and strode defiantly from the room.   
I looked at Sherlock, who was still looking at the door out of which she had gone. Then he blinked and turned to me.  
“That’s not all true of me, is it?”  
“Remarkably so.”  
He grunted. “Shall we off to Westminster, then? Then we must investigate the widow, of course, shake loose any family skeletons. Are you free all day?”  
“Yes, I cleared my schedule for the entire day.”  
He nodded in response, turned up the collar on his coat, and strode out of the room with me right behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Colin joining John and Sherlock in investigation. From Colin's POV.

I could tell that Miss Emma was extremely put out by how fast she was walking and how hard her heels were hitting the ground as we left Scotland Yard. It wasn’t until we were out of the building and approaching the curb that she stopped and spun towards me.  
“Can you believe his presumption? As if he should even be analysing me at all!”  
I didn’t want to tell her that being angry simply made her more beautiful, so I simply raised an eyebrow and responded, “Are you more upset at his presumption, or at the very real possibility that he may find out something more than you want him to?”  
She was now looking at her fingers and giving them the occasional sniff. “Blasted calluses, old books, and bread dough. Perhaps I should not have made bread this morning after all.”  
“Indeed, you were up most of the night, it seemed.”  
She dropped her hand and blushed slightly, really looking at me for the first time since we had arrived at Scotland Yard an hour before. “I’m sorry, Colin. I didn’t realise I had been disturbing your sleep.” Her voice had softened considerably.   
“It’s all right, I was awake anyway.” I didn’t want to tell her why I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t appreciate the disruption to our routine as she did. I wanted things to change in an entirely different direction than they were going.   
“And I am sorry for the outburst before we left. I had been doing so well.”  
I smiled sadly at her, but I could not disagree. “Indeed, I feel his interest in you will be more piqued than ever.”  
She looked away, but continued rubbing at the fingers he had inspected. “What shall I do, Colin? Part of my mind believes, nay, insists that we back away and extricate ourselves as much as possible from the investigation. But….”  
She looked down again at her fingers, splaying them gently to inspect them more.  
I knew what she wanted. I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t want the change. But I knew I had to say something.  
“But most of your mind very much wants to help in the investigation.”  
While her head remained partially bowed, her pleading eyes looked up into mine. Why she seemed to be asking me for permission, I have no idea. She had ever been the master of me, in every way imaginable. Yet I was not considering her wishes, but what I knew was best for her, so my answer went against my grain.  
“Miss Emma, twice now you have had the opportunity to give only what was expected, and truly all that was necessary. Yet twice now you have called attention to yourself by showing your deductive skills at times and around persons where it would call the most attention to you. I don’t even know how you drew the conclusions you drew about him in there, but it’s got to stop.”  
“I must admit I did a little research last night, but most of my conclusions stemmed from a bit of eavesdropping upstairs.”  
I paused, going over the timetable of our time upstairs in my head. “You were eavesdropping on conversations while you were talking to me?”  
She blushed a little. “I’m sorry, Colin. Sometimes our conversations are a bit—ordinary.”  
I was a bit stung, though I had heard her claim such before. I knew it was pointless to argue the subject, however, so I said nothing. Then I heard a voice beside us that, despite my best attempts at indifference, made my hackles rise.   
“—after a more thorough inspection of Mr. Macintosh’s itinerary and records, as well as seeing if there were any dalliances in the office, and all threats received and bits of law he was working on.”  
Mr Holmes and Dr. Watson were standing not two metres from us, with Mr Holmes talking while Doctor Watson tried to hail a cab.  
“You really think it could be as simple as having a threat to — am I invisible? Do the cabbies here not even see me hailing them? — to follow to the killer?”  
“All MPs get threats, John. It’s just a matter of figuring out if any of them are worth following.”  
“And how long is—do you see me, Sherlock? Because I must be invisible!—how long do you suppose that is going to take?”  
Sherlock was nonchalantly tapping something out on his phone with his right thumb, while his left hand languished in his coat pocket and his friend became increasingly agitated trying to hail a taxi. Miss Emma had turned entirely too much of her attention to them, narrowing her eyes as she tried not to look directly at them. As if the fact that we were just standing there, when we had our own car parked just up the street, wasn’t enough of a clue that we were eavesdropping. After my initial distraction with my annoyance, I tried to gently direct Emma towards the car, but she would have none of it. She could be so excessively stubborn.  
“Oh, a couple of hours or so, including talking with Macintosh’s assistant. If you find that too tedious, you could go and talk to his wife, as I believe she stays in his London flat while he is in town. Both must be done, and it would be much quicker if we split up. If we find no leads, we may have to take the train up to his constituency in Edinburgh.”  
“I don’t see how that is going to happen, as it would require two cabs and I can’t even get bloody one!”  
Emma cleared her throat, and the doctor dropped his hand and apologised for his language. I steeled myself for what she would say, as I had a feeling I was not going to like it.   
“Quite all right, doctor. Would you gentlemen be in need of a ride? Our car is parked not two streets from here, and we easily have room for four.”  
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be able to hail a cab in another minute, Miss Bedingfield—” started the doctor, but then his companion broke in.  
“We’d love a ride, of course.” He put his phone into his pocket and looked up for the first time since he had arrived at the curb. “John, don’t be rude.”  
Doctor Watson gave him a most confused look, but quickly recovered and turned to us. “Uh, yes, we’d be most obliged, thank you.”  
I was seething, but I smiled at the pair of them. “Our pleasure. Right this way, gentlemen.”  
I immediately began walking towards the car, wishing we had done so long before it had come to this. I was upset enough that I didn’t even extend my elbow to Miss Emma, but by the time I realised this, I had taken long enough that it was clear that she was also not interested in taking my arm, which hurt even more. Would I need to apologise later? I feared I would, though I wasn’t completely clear on what I had done to offend her. She was so very hard to discern at times.   
The walk to the car was silent from all parties and did little to rein in my irritation. Why in the world would she offer them a ride when we were trying to extricate ourselves from the investigation and divert attention from her? Surely she would know such an action would only serve to open her up to more scrutiny! And scrutiny from the famous ‘consulting detective’ at that.   
I found myself growing tense as we walked and began breathing carefully to calm my nerves without attracting attention.   
I really shouldn’t be surprised at her actions. She had always been something of an enigma—I suppose it comes with being immortal—so it was always a bit difficult for me to put a finger on whatever piqued her interest on any particular day. On one day, it was British history. On another it would be crossword puzzles. Yet another, music theory, or human physiology, or epidemiology, or Shakespeare, or zoology. She seemed scattered to the four winds. I had noticed that she had been keen on the newspaper articles concerning his investigations the past few years, and I knew she wandered onto Doctor Watson’s blog upon occasion as well, but as she never did anything more about it, I thought it nothing more than another passing fancy. Until now, when something fell into her lap. And I could only wonder if this fancy would pass as well.  
We reached the car and I opened the front passenger door for Miss Emma and allowed the two men to seat themselves in the back.  
“This is, uh, a rather nice automobile,” remarked the doctor as he climbed into the car. I can only assume he was attempting to make conversation after the silence during the walk. I rather sympathised with him, being dragged along in these things, so I decided to accommodate his attempt as I got behind the driver’s wheel.  
“1967 Jaguar MK2. Top condition. Been in the family since it was new.” I started the engine. “Where shall we go first, Miss Emma?”  
She had done up her safety belt and put her hands in her lap, pausing before answering. Which meant she was again going to say something I didn’t want to hear.  
“Colin, would you be very put out with me if I ask that you drop Mr. Holmes and I off at Westminster and then accompany Doctor Watson to Mister Macintosh’s flat to aid in the investigation?”  
I turned the engine back off and put both hands on the steering wheel, unable to face her.   
“Miss Emma, we discussed this—”  
“And, if you will recall, I agreed to nothing.”  
“Miss Emma—”  
“Colin, I feel this is where my services, as well as yours, will best be utilised. Please do not make me order you.”  
It was deathly silent now, but I could say nothing. After a long moment I started the car up again. “Very well, Miss Emma.”  
As I moved the car into traffic, I realised with a coldness in my chest that this did not at all seem like a passing fancy. And I couldn’t be completely sure it was merely the investigation in which she was interested.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of investigation at Westminster with Sherlock and Emma. From Emma's POV.

I was a bit embarrassed that Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson had seen that interchange between Colin and I, but I could see no way around it under the circumstances. The rest of the drive to Parliament was an awkward silence, as Colin’s fuming anger permeated the entire cab of the car. I was also sad that I had made Colin so upset, but again, there was little practical that could be done about it. He was protective, even over-protective, of me and my secrets. And enamoured to the point of being almost doting upon occasion, which did not help him see things any more clearly. But right now things had to be done, and I had some words to say to Mr. Holmes which I would prefer to say to him in private. This provided the clearest opportunity for doing so. And if I happened to be able to find a bit of useful information for the investigation while tagging along, then all the better. I would simply have to apologise to Colin later. Perhaps I would make his favourite chocolate torte to help with the apology.   
We stopped in front of the Parliament steps, as parking was too atrocious to be worthwhile, but Colin still got out of the car to open my door for me, and I let him. I appreciated him taking time for the proprieties, though I knew he was still angry with me.   
“Thank you,” I said, but instead of the casual indifferent tone we usually used, I said it most sincerely, while making eye contact. He still didn’t smile, but his look softened just enough that I knew I would eventually be forgiven.  
Mr. Holmes stood on the sidewalk during this brief exchange, and as Colin drove the Jaguar away, said, “Is all going to be well with him? He is most heartily in love with you.”  
I turned and began making my way up the steps. “Yes, things will be well, and yes, I know he is in love with me, and no, you cannot divert me from being put out with you. That wasn’t very kind, forcing me to make such a decision.”  
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”  
“Do not play coy. I do not know whom you texted to make sure that no cab stopped for Doctor Watson, but I know that you did it, which of course forced me, as a gesture of good manners, to offer you a ride.”  
“’Good manners’ are entirely overrated.”  
“’Good manners’ are the grease which keeps the cogs of our society turning smoothly, Mr Holmes.”  
The silence lasted ten steps, after which I continued. “I know you have seen the darker side of society, Mr. Holmes, as well as the lies and the baser instincts that lead to the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, and this has made you suspect and deride even the most simple of manners. But they do help, and it would behove you to practise them a little more, as they would make things go so much easier for you. For instance,” and I paused on the top step, turning to face him. “You could have simply asked me to join you in the investigation, rather than playing your silly games.”  
He paused for a moment before replying. “Do you intend to take away all of my fun?” He opened the door and allowed me to go in first.   
“Indeed, sir, that was never my intention.”  
It took us only a few minutes to find our way to Mr. Macintosh’s office, where his assistant sat organising papers into a box at a desk already bedecked with black crepe. She picked up a tissue and was dabbing at teary eyes as we approached.  
Mr. Holmes wasted no words on niceties. “We’re here to investigate Mr. Macintosh’s death, Miss Esplin.”  
He was using the name from the plaque on the desk to increase rapport with the assistant. It worked, as she sniffed, smiled, and tried to wipe the smudged mascara from under her eyes. She wasn’t especially pretty, and looked to be in her late thirties, so I doubted there was any inappropriate relationship between her and Mister Macintosh, but Westminster was a big place. All sorts of opportunities.   
“Yes, Detective Inspector Lestrade called and said you would be coming, Mr. Holmes. How may I help you?”  
“I would like to see the records of all of the threats received to Mr. Macintosh, as well as the register of his financial interests.”  
“I can retrieve the letters and send electronic copies of the threats by voice mail and electronic mail, but the register is publicly available on-line.”  
He smiled at her. “I know, but I would suspect you have some additional documentation on his interests unavailable on the public website.”  
She put her knuckle to her chin and looked away as she thought. “I believe Mr Macintosh did keep some extra notes and records from which he drew the information he submitted for the register. I will see if I can find them.”  
She waited a moment, and when I realised Sherlock was not going to thank her, I did so myself. She smiled at me and went off to gather the requested information.  
As she was gone, Sherlock turned to me. “Do you wish to go over the threats, or the financial documents?”  
I smiled. “It has been far too long since I have seen a good threat. If you don’t mind.”  
“Not at all.”  
“Do you wish to be the one to enquire as to possible interoffice liaisons, or shall I?”   
“Be my guest, Miss Bedingfield.”  
I paused for a moment. “Are you being particularly well-mannered as a means to an end, or merely as a whim perhaps initiated by my earlier comment?”  
“A bit of both.”  
“Ah.”  
Miss Esplin returned with a banker’s box loaded with papers and envelopes.   
“Here are the physical copies of threats. It will take me a few more minutes to find the electronic files for the voice and electronic mails. And I haven’t found his notes on the financials yet.”  
“Thank you,” I said, giving her a smile that was kind, but sympathetic. “Is there a room in which we could work?”  
“Right this way, Miss—?”  
“Bedingfield. I am temporarily assisting Mr. Holmes today.”  
She nodded and smiled back, then led us to a small conference room with a centre table and chairs set neatly around it. Miss Esplin placed the box on the table. “I’ll be back as soon as I put together the electronic files and find the financials. Would a thumb drive be good enough for the files, or would you prefer I put them on a laptop for you to examine here?”  
“A laptop would be best.” Said Sherlock. Then, after a pause, he added, “thank you.”  
The assistant stopped at the door, and with renewed emotion said, “thank you for working on this, Mr. Holmes. Charlie was a good man, he didn’t deserve to die like he did. He didn’t deserve to die at all.”  
“Ev—”  
I cut him off before he could callously blurt out that everyone dies. “We are so sorry for your loss, Miss Esplin. We will do our best to make sure that his murderer is brought to justice.”  
She sniffled again and left the room, closing the door behind her. As I began emptying the box of letters and dividing them into piles, I muttered, “Manners, Mr. Holmes.”  
He huffed through his nose, sat in a nearby chair, and slid a stack of letters towards himself. “I might as well assist until she comes back with the rest of the information.”

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock leaned back in his chair with a groan. “Not a single useful threat in this entire stack. Have you had any luck?”  
I sighed and put down the small stack that was the last of the box’s contents. “Nothing so far, no.”  
He eyed the three piles I had created as I had perused the letters. “What sort of system have you divided these into, then?”  
Pointing at each stack in turn, I told him. “This stack is threats from people who at least have some grasp of grammar, politics, and society in general, though none of them seem credible to our particular crime. This larger stack consists of letters that make far less sense and seem hardly plausible at all, more emotional reactions than anything substantial.”  
I paused, pondering the last stack and feeling a bit embarrassed about it.  
“And the last stack?”  
“Anatomically impossible, but somewhat humorous, threats.”  
He hardly paused before sliding the third stack towards himself and beginning to peruse its contents.   
After a few more minutes, in which I finished going through the rest of the letters while Sherlock snorted at the contents of the third stack, Miss Esplin had still not returned with more information. I sat back in my chair and placed my hands in my lap, waiting for her return, but Sherlock, only half done with the third stack, threw the rest back in the box and stood abruptly.   
“How long is this going to take? There is an executioner on the loose and we haven’t got all day.”  
“Patience, sir.”  
He glared at me. “The first twenty-four hours after a murder is the most crucial to catching the killer.”  
“Yes, but impatience hurries the information not at all.”  
He sat back down in his chair, hard. I could tell by the look on his face that his mind was racing, frustrated with not having enough information to analyse, and desperately seeking some other form of stimulation. Then his eyes lit up with an idea.  
“Let us play a game.”  
I gave a small but polite smile. “Are you sure that would be appropriate under the circumstances?”  
“Blast the circumstances! I see murders almost every day and that hardly allows for any other circumstances. Besides, this would be a related game. A game of deduction.”  
I knew I shouldn’t bite on this hook. But the bait did seem so very tempting. And we were alone in the room, with no one there to be offended….  
“Very well, then. What would you have us deduce? And please don’t let it involve murder. I prefer not to make light of murder.”   
That quite deflated him, and I almost relinquished my request. But having been murdered twice, I felt the subject rather keenly and decided I must stand my ground. So I was pleased when he sat up straight again, his face lighting with inspiration.  
He pulled a letter, seemingly at random, from the largest stack and slid it in front of me.  
“What can you tell about the author of this letter, without using any of the words as clues?”  
I cocked an eyebrow. “May I use handwriting, spelling, and other items not including denotations or connotations, in my assessment?”  
“Of course.”  
“Very well, then.”   
I opened the letter. It was on standard, low-quality copy paper, excessively common and revealing little. There were a number of other clues, however, and my heart actually tingled to examine them. I was already enjoying this game, and we had hardly started.  
I took a moment to examine the letter, another moment to process information, and began my analysis.  
“The paper and envelope are of a very common variety and reveal little. However—”  
Sherlock sat back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of him, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. I knew it was not the letter he would be analysing, but me. But I was not afraid of Sherlock Holmes.  
“The grammar and diction indicate a low emphasis on education, most likely someone of a less wealthy class. The spelling errors in particular are interesting—rather than just simple typographical errors, though those exist, and common homonym misuse, there are a number of phonetic attempts at spelling, sometimes indicating a complete ignorance of how the word is actually spelt. Some of the phonetic attempts, however, give an indication of dialect, leading me to believe that the writer may hail from the Liverpool area.”  
Sherlock’s right eyebrow twitched, which gave me a bit of encouragement, though I tried not to let it go to my head. I had hardly scratched the surface yet.   
“This MP having a constituency in Scotland makes a letter from Liverpool incongruous, so I suspect that this particular letter was probably sent to a great number of MPs. Whether the sender sent them to all six hundred and fifty I cannot know, as that would have involved an expense the sender may not have been able to afford, though he may have felt his subject important enough to be worth the sacrifice. As I cannot use the meaning of the words in my analysis, I will have to ask clemency on that particular matter.”  
Mr. Holmes nodded ever so slightly, and I continued.  
“While the paper is cheap and common, the printing is actually from a laser printer. Since we have already surmised that the writer was most likely poor, it seems unlikely that he would have the means to buy such a printer, or the type of job where he could print possibly hundreds of such a letter without consequence. Therefore I would guess that this was printed at a public library.”  
I then picked up the envelope and gave it a quick perusal and, just to be thorough, a sniff around the seal.  
“The handwriting on the envelope indicates the sender was also right-handed, probably male, and lives alone. Oh, and he has some rather advanced tooth decay.”  
I folded the letter and gave it, along with its envelope, back to Mr. Holmes, who took them and perused them much as I had. After a good thirty seconds, he raised his right eyebrow, rather higher than he had before.   
“How did you come to the conclusion he lives alone?”  
I pointed to the envelope he still held in his left hand. “If I were his mother, or his wife, or his girlfriend, and I disagreed with his sentiments, I would not allow him to spend so much on postage, sending threatening letters to Parliament. If I agreed, I would make sure they did not have such atrocious handwriting that half the letters would be misdirected.”  
He placed the letter and envelope back in the pile and opened his mouth to say something more, but Miss Esplin came into the room at just that moment, in such a rush that we were both quite distracted from our game.  
“I’m sorry, but there seems to have been a problem,” she said, “all of the electronic files of threatening voice messages and emails have gone missing.”  
“You mean you can’t find them?” asked Mr. Holmes.  
“No—well, yes, but not because I don’t know where they are. I know where they are supposed to be. But they are not there. Somehow they’ve been deleted.”  
Apparently the hacker who had sent the trojan file to turn off all of the CCTV cameras had been more busy than we had anticipated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of investigation at the home of Charles MacIntosh by John Watson and Colin Gidney. From John Watson's POV.

Colin Gidney was not a loquacious man.   
After giving him the address of Charles Macintosh’s London flat, he drove the first few streets in complete silence. Since I was still in the back seat, this was especially awkward and I was afraid I would start to feel like I was taking a cab. Thus far throughout the entire investigation, he had hardly said ten words together, but I had found myself surprised that his diction and grammar were good, suggesting he may not be the imbecile body guard he appeared to be. I know Sherlock had said he had received his Doctorate from M.I.T., but I had been doing this long enough to realise that being educated and being intelligent are sometimes two different things.  
“What do you do for Miss Bedingfield, Mister Gidney?”  
“I am her security engineer.”  
“Full time?”  
“Yes.”  
More silence. My mind brimmed with questions as to why someone with a doctorate in computer science would be a full-time ‘security engineer’—and, apparently, at least a chauffeur as well—for someone who seemed domestic and, while well-to-do, unremarkable in social, political, and public spheres. But I dared not ask my questions, knowing it would reveal that we had done at least some research on his background. I had to find other things to say or questions to ask to stimulate him into conversation.  
“She is very pretty. Is she a good boss?”  
His hands seemed to tighten on the wheel, but his voice was flat as he answered. “Yes, sir.”  
Maybe if I steered the conversation towards the investigation. “It must have been quite upsetting, being witnesses to a murder yesterday.”  
“Indeed, sir.” Still flat. Not even a mention of his military service, where he very well may have seen lots of death. Maybe he had PTSD. Maybe that was why he was so taciturn. But why would he go into security if he were struggling with post-traumatic stress? Then again, security for a domestic homebody may be just the thing. If she really were a domestic homebody.   
This wasn’t working. I was creating more questions than I was getting answers for.   
“Sherlock said she plays piano. Does she play well?”  
His look actually softened a bit. At last, maybe now I was breaking through!   
“Indeed, she plays the most amazing music I have ever heard.”  
Good, talking about her seemed to be working. Now maybe we were getting somewhere.  
“And she bakes?”  
“Yes.”  
Damn me, I asked a yes or no question. Needed to be more specific.  
“Does she bake well? What sort of things does she make?”  
“She is the most amazing cook. Anything you could name, she can make it and top any chef of haute cuisine in the world. Except….”  
He paused.  
“Except what?”  
He pursed his lips, reluctant to continue, which of course only made me more curious. I leaned forward in my seat.  
“Well, I spent a few years continuing my education in the States. And I developed a bit of a taste for some of their food.”  
“Really?”  
“Oh yes. There’s this shop in Cambridge—that’s Cambridge, Massachusetts—that makes the most amazing cheeseburgers, all dripping with their yellow cheese, and fries fresh cut from their Idaho potatoes. But—”  
Now he was making me hungry. And curious. “But what?”  
“Miss Emma hates cheeseburgers. And she absolutely despises the American yellow cheese. Says it is a crime against culinary taste everywhere.”  
“Seriously?”  
“Oh, yes. In fact,” he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “she is actually quite a picky eater. She calls it a ‘discriminating palate,’ but it’s really just picky. Don’t tell her I told you that, please.”  
I almost laughed out loud. It really wasn’t pertinent information, but it made the two of them seem a bit more—human, at least. I sat back in my seat again.   
“Blast. Now I’m hungry for a cheeseburger.”

It wasn’t long after that that we arrived at Macintosh’s pied-à-terre, a surprisingly respectable mansion flat for a temporary residence.  
We approached the door, and I tried to remember everything I saw, in case something was important. It really was difficult doing this without Sherlock. No matter how much information I gather, I always seemed to miss something important that Sherlock would see almost instantly. I had to occasionally remind myself that I was a doctor, after all, and not exactly stupid.   
With Colin Gidney right behind me, I knocked on the door. After a moment, a younger, sharp-looking male servant opened the door, dressed well but wearing a rather old-fashioned black armband of mourning.   
“I am Dr. John Watson and this is my…colleague, Colin Gidney. We are here to help investigate the death of Mr. MacIntosh. Is your mistress at home?”  
“Indeed, sir. If you’ll follow me to the sitting room, I’ll tell her you’re here.”  
We followed the man to the sitting room, where we were directed to sit on the sofa and wait. I glanced around the room and noticed nothing remarkable, excepting that the room had quite a bit of sports memorabilia decor, something I would not have expected for the public sitting room of an MP.   
At last Mrs. MacIntosh came into the room, and Mr. Gidney and I rose out of respect. She seemed to be in her mid forties, but very fit for her age and rather pretty, though her eyes were red from crying. Her long blond hair was fashionably done, and though I suspected the colour may have come from a bottle, she didn’t have any dark roots, which suggested she had just had it coloured recently. She was wearing grey trousers and a black blouse, which along with the servant’s armband made me think that she liked to observe some of the more traditional mourning practises. She shook our hands, thanked us for coming, and we all sat.  
“We’re so sorry for your loss, Mrs. MacIntosh.”  
She nodded, looking down at the tissue in her hand, and there was a brief silence during which I wasn’t sure whether or not she would burst into tears.   
“We were supposed to meet last night at the fund-raising ball. I had appointments until five-thirty, so I was just going to come here to dress and then meet him there at six-thirty. When he didn’t arrive by seven, I knew something terrible had happened….”  
Her voice cracked and she shed a few more tears. Mr. Gidney and I sat awkwardly until she was able to compose herself again.   
“He had been so excited about the ball. He loved dancing. It was his favourite thing to do. Aside from watching rugby, of course.”  
I nodded. That explained the room’s decor.   
“Mrs. MacIntosh, had he had any threats or people that might be considered enemies that you knew of?”  
She shook her head. “Everyone loved Charlie. He never let being an MP go to his head, he would go and watch the matches at the pub or Murrayfield with everyone and they would have a grand time. He was everyone’s best mate.”  
I nodded again. Being a great sports enthusiast was never something I had ever greatly identified with, but I knew the type well enough.   
“Seems a bit odd that he would go into government with such an interest in sports.”  
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Charlie was on the board of Murrayfield Stadium. Sponsor and executive and all that. That was a big reason he went into government work, you see. He thought he could better represent the sports interest of the common man from parliament.”  
I was afraid my attempt at an understanding smile may not have been entirely convincing. Going into politics because of sports interests? Though I supposed it was a large money source, and so it could have a lot of influence that way. But we were getting distracted by all the sports talk, and I needed to turn the conversation back to the investigation.   
“Did he have any personal meetings scheduled yesterday afternoon?”  
She thought for a moment. “He told me that morning he was just going to leave Westminster a little early, get ready for the ball, have a couple of drinks, and then walk over to the Royal Academy.”  
She stopped talking, but I could tell by her cocked head and eyes that searched the air in front of her that she was still thinking, so I waited.   
“Though…he seemed nervous. I have no idea what was making him nervous, but he acted like he was worrying about something and he didn’t want to tell me because he didn’t wish for me to worry, too, so I didn’t ask.” She started to cry again. “I should have asked!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just following a few leads.....  
> Emma's POV

I sat patiently as Mr. Holmes called both Scotland Yard and Dr. Watson, setting Lestrade’s division on the scent of the hacker, and gathering the information that Colin and the doctor had collected from MacIntosh’s pied-à-terre.   
After ringing off, he sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “John said that MacIntosh was involved in government because of sporting interests. Said he was everyone’s mate and was an MP to protect the sporting interests of the common man.”  
I cocked an eyebrow. “That’s an…interesting reason to put yourself in Westminster.”  
“Indeed.” We both were silent for another moment, then I leaned forward in my chair, putting my arms on the table.  
“So I assume he commonly socialised with the sporting types, then?”  
Mr. Holmes leaned forward as well. “Yes, very athletic lot, aren’t they.”  
We were thinking along the same lines, and I was getting excited. “And used to working on a team to achieve their goals. Did John say what sport MacIntosh was involved with the most?”  
“Rugby. Says he had shares and an executive position in Murrayfield Stadium.” He paused. “Do you know the rugby club in Edinburgh?”  
I paused as well, the excitement of following the clues derailed. “I haven’t a clue.”  
“Neither do I. Never was much into sporting. But John is coming; he might know.”  
“As would Colin. He played rugby in eton.”   
“We probably should go up to Edinburgh to continue the investigation.”  
I was excited and frustrated simultaneously. We had seemed to find a good line of investigation, but could pursue it no further at the moment. I was surprised that my normal infinite patience seemed to have fled from me. I wanted to do something now.  
We both suddenly leaned forward at the same time, our faces only a foot apart.   
“Shall we—” started Sherlock, but just then the door opened, and Miss Esplin entered with another box.  
“I found the financial records!” she announced triumphantly.   
We both jumped up. “Excellent!” Sherlock exclaimed.  
Miss Esplin put the box on the table next to the letters. “I notified our technical department of the missing files. They are looking into it and trying to find backups.”  
Sherlock immediately began looking through the folders in the new box, but I remained focused on Miss Esplin for another moment. “DI Lestrade has been contacted and has his technical forensics team looking into it as well. A breach in the security of an office of parliament is nothing that should be taken lightly. Thank you again for your assistance.”  
She nodded and smiled a polite, but weak, smile at me, then turned back to Mr. Holmes as if expecting him to say something himself. But he was completely engulfed in the box and seemed oblivious to her presence, so after a few moments of waiting, she left. I sat back down.   
“Most of his financial interests concern sports,” he noted out loud, “Stadiums, sport clubs, sport bars, sport memorabilia. How this could not be considered a conflict of interest, I may never understand.”  
“You did realise she was there, waiting for you to say something, yet you chose to ignore her completely. Why?”  
He waved a dismissive hand, not looking up from the papers. “She was extra noise. A distraction from the case.”  
“She is a person who has been trying very hard to help us find clues to the murderer of her employer.”  
“I fail to understand why you are wasting time on manners and the feelings of someone peripheral to the investigation of a murder.”  
Miss Esplin entered the room again then, carrying a tray of tea. She placed it on the table and smiled at me. “I thought you could use a spot of tea.”  
“Thank you, yes,” I responded, keeping my smile grateful, but still as sympathetic as the circumstances called for. She nodded and left the room again.  
I turned back to Sherlock. “Because you get more assistance with manners, which saves time in the total investigation.” I prepared myself a cup of tea with cream and sugar and a touch of lemon. Then I pulled out a hefty stack of manila folders from the box and began looking through them.  
After a few minutes, I commented, “I can see why he was so focused on sport. He was making an incredible amount of money from it.”  
Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he answered—but surprised me by putting it on speaker phone and setting it down on the table. It was DI Lestrade.  
“Sherlock, my men have just started looking into the computer breach over at Westminster, but they wanted me to tell you their initial findings. It looks like a worm this time, went through a deleted a few files that look random, but mostly seems to have targeted MacIntosh’s emails and the threats files, then deleted itself, just like the trojan on the CCTV. But they said the hacker got a little more sloppy this time and used some of the same IP routing he used for the CCTV, like a signature. They are positive we’re looking at the same guy.”  
Sherlock and I looked at each other, then he said to phone, “send me a list of the files that appear to be missing, no matter how random they seem. We’re going to be headed up to Edinburgh to follow some leads we’ve found here.”  
“Don’t piss off too many people up there, Sherlock. We have enough trouble, letting one of their MPs get killed while he was here.”  
“Don’t worry, between John and Miss Bedingfield I’ll hardly be able to step a foot out of line.”  
“Miss Bedingfield is with you? You didn’t—”  
Sherlock ended the phone call before Lestrade could even finish the sentence. I gave him the look I usually reserved for Colin when he used the wrong fork at dinner on purpose. He actually gave me a small smile in return.  
“So, theories. One, he was working on some sort of law that upset part of the sport community, and after failing to stop him through conventional means, someone from that community took it upon himself to murder him.”  
“It would most likely have to be multiple persons, though,” I added, “either through hire or acquaintance, given the odds of someone of that size and strength also being a premiere computer hacker.”  
Sherlock paused as if he had thought of something else, but then simply nodded in agreement.  
“Second,” I added, “He had made a decision in regards to one or multiple holdings, perhaps in regards to a sports club or stadium, angering members which then sought for his head.”  
He looked at me, to which I responded, “Quite literally, unfortunately.” The side of his mouth turned up in a smile.  
“Third, he was having intimate relations with someone he had met through his sport acquaintances, perhaps a wife of a player, and was killed for that.” Sherlock gave this last suggestion, then furrowed his brow. “That is a lot of possibilities involving a great many people. It will take time to sort through them all.”  
“Unless we can get most of the players and executives together in one place,” I said.  
His right eyebrow lifted and his eyes brightened. “I have an idea.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making preparations for taking the investigation to Edinburgh. Colin's POV.

After leaving Mrs. MacIntosh’s flat, I allowed Dr. Watson to sit in the front of the Jag, which I had never allowed anyone to do but Miss Emma, but he seemed a decent enough fellow. I really didn’t have a beef with him.   
As we were driving, the doctor called his colleague and told him what we had learnt from the flat, and we were told about the electronic files that had gone missing from the MP’s offices. After he rang off, Dr. Watson paused then turned to me.  
“They haven’t been able to look at the financial records yet, so it might take some time before we can pick them up. It’s past lunch and I’m starving. Do you want to stop and get a cheeseburger before getting back to Westminster?”  
My stomach rumbled at the mere suggestion. I should not have told him that weakness of mine. I wanted to join Emma as soon as possible, not trusting any of the time she had to spend alone with Mr. Holmes. But I could not deny my hunger, and without Emma I had the perfect opportunity for a little indulgence.  
“Very well, but we must do it quickly. And you must thoroughly clean your hands before getting back in the car. I don’t want grease on the upholstery.”  
He smiled. “I know the perfect place, not far out of our way. Sherlock took me there once a couple of years back. He knows the best restaurants in London.”  
I doubted he had as good a taste in the matter as Miss Emma, but no matter what my feelings were about Mr. Holmes, I was already anticipating the taste of a juicy burger dripping with cheese, and I readily conceded.  
We arrived at the restaurant a few minutes later. When the doctor had said it was perfect, I hadn’t realised how complete his description had been. The restaurant was dedicated to American food, even adopting a style I had seen in the States that they called a ‘1950’s diner.’ Black and white chequer-board tile, red booths and round red stools up at the counter. Shiny ice cream machines against the back wall and posters of Elvis on the wall. I couldn’t help myself. I grinned in delight.   
We sat and ordered at the counter. I may have gone a bit overboard, but for a man of my height and build, not to mention that I hadn’t had a decent cheeseburger in years, I regretted nothing. When the food came, I found it to be even better than the doctor had described, and for a moment I gained a little more respect for Mr. Holmes.   
“So, what sort of schooling were you doing in Massachusetts?”  
The food was making me feel especially amiable and open, so despite my caution, I told him. “I was going to M.I.T., doctorate in CS.” I didn’t even finish chewing to say it. Miss Emma would have been appalled.  
“That’s an impressive accomplishment. Doesn’t seem to follow that you would go into security for someone like Emma Bedingfield with a degree like that. You could be making millions in the I.T. sector.”  
“Oh, she paid for it.” Damn this food! “I mean, her family paid for my education.” I needed to be more careful.   
The doctor crinkled his brow. “They paid for it? Why would they do that?”  
That slip of the tongue was going to be costly. I took a moment under the guise of finishing my latest bite to consider how best to answer. Stick as close to the truth as possible. Less to remember and find discrepancies with later.  
“My family has served hers for generations. I was born knowing I would continue the tradition. We thought with the rise of the information age, computer security was a good way to continue in the line of service.” I knew it was vague, but I didn’t have a better answer that wouldn’t give away too much or come off as a complete lie—because it would have been. I was relieved when his line of questioning took another path.  
“Serving her family for generations, eh? I didn’t think there were many families that still did that in England.”  
Again, thinking while I chewed and swallowed. “An ancestor of hers nearly sacrificed her life saving an ancestor of mine. We have felt beholden ever since.” That was so close to the truth that it made me feel uncomfortable saying it, but the doctor seemed satisfied with the answer, nodding and turning back to his food.  
While I didn’t enjoy talking much to relative strangers, I realised I could probably control the direction of the conversation better if I started asking the questions.   
“So, how about you? You’re a real medical doctor, right? What pulled you into helping solve murders and blogging about it instead of identifying various rashes and such?”  
The doctor snorted. “Addicted to adventure, I guess. I served in Afghanistan, but after I was invalided out, I guess I got bored. Met Sherlock looking for a flatmate, got pulled into an investigation and found I rather liked it. Kind of went on from there.”  
I nodded and we both returned to our food for a minute. Thinking of questions wasn’t as easy as it seemed when other people did it.  
“You ever killed anyone?” I regretted the question as soon as I said it, but it was out. The doctor didn’t seem offended, though, just thoughtful.   
“Yeah. It was to save someone else, but it’s still harder than they make it seem on the telly. I would like to think I’ve saved more lives than I’ve taken, though.”  
That was actually a comforting thought. “I suppose running around dangerous things and chasing murderers, you have a few opportunities for that.”  
He smiled. “Yeah.”  
We finished our plates, cleaned our hands thoroughly, and drove the rest of the way to Westminster. He was a pretty good chap.

I was actually feeling pretty content when we picked up Miss Emma and Mr. Holmes. Everyone got in the car and we were driving them back to Baker Street where I hoped we would drop them off and be done with this thing. I wanted the case solved, of course. I meant what I had said to Mrs. MacIntosh. I just didn’t want Miss Emma involved anymore.   
“Colin, after we drop these gentlemen off at Baker Street, you and I need to go back to our flat and pick up some things. We’re going up to Edinburgh to continue the investigation and it will take at least a couple of days.”  
All of my contentment evaporated. “Edinburgh? Why do we need to go up to Edinburgh?” It took every ounce of self-restraint not to swear.  
“We think the killer may be familiar with Mr. MacIntosh from dealings he had back in his home city. We have a plan to find him out.” She put her hand gently on my arm. “Hopefully it won’t take too long. We have a plan.”  
I wasn’t sure which was making me more angry. The thought of her continuing in this investigation, the idea of driving up to Edinburgh, or the fact that she had said ‘we’ and it referred to her and that bloody detective.  
I heard Dr. Watson in the back seat ask Mr. Holmes, “So, what is this plan?”  
“I called Mrs. MacIntosh a few minutes ago and asked her if we could help her put together a memorial for her husband in their hometown tomorrow evening. Invite all of his friends and business colleagues: the rugby club, the stadium board, everyone we think may have had something to do with the murder. Well at least be able to get enough information to lead us to the killer, perhaps even catch him there.”  
“And how do you plan to blend in at this memorial? The one with all his close friends and a consulting detective?”  
“We,” I could hear the smile in Mr. Holmes’ voice when he answered, and it made me seethe. “Are going to perform.”

I was silent the rest of the drive. We dropped the men off at Baker Street and I drove back to our flat. Our flat. Where we lived, Emma and I. Where we worked together and talked together every day. I was the one who knew her secret and it had been so for all of my life. And now it was getting all upset. By that horrid little detective.   
I parked the car, opened Miss Emma’s door, and we walked into the building in silence. I knew she had to know that I was angry. She always bloody knew. And yet she said nothing. I had done nothing but cooperate so far. How could she do this? My anger finally boiled over as we were in the lift.   
“Emma, how could you? You are acting like it’s your responsibility to help solve this murder! And performing? With him?! What do you think this is, a bloody circus act? Every second you spend with him is another second that he could find out! Especially if you are trying to confront a murderer. Have you even thought of that? What will happen if you are at this big party and in the process of catching the killer, you yourself get killed? Do you think they will even pay any more attention to the murderer when your body disappears?”  
She was silent, watching me as I ranted. Her face was worried, sad, pitying me. Pitying me. As if I were the bloody victim, or still a child. I finally became so angry I couldn’t talk anymore. The lift finally reached our floor, and I stormed out, fumbling for my key. I jammed it into the lock much harder than I needed to, but managed to unlock the door and storm into the flat. I went straight to my bedroom, but after putting my key and wallet onto the nightstand, I turned around to see Miss Emma, standing in the doorway. I was surprised to note that she had tears streaming down her cheeks.   
“Colin, I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you. That certainly was never my intent. But please try to understand my position. For the last fifty or so years, I have been increasingly restricted to this flat. I am not naturally a very social person, but even for an old bookworm like myself, it grew harder and harder. I love to watch, to listen, to learn. That much has always been true. And while I don’t want to seem callous towards Charles MacIntosh’s murder, I find myself having more fun than I have had in decades, centuries, possibly my whole life.”  
Seeing her tears tore at my heart. I felt the tension easing in my shoulders, back, arms, leaving an ache in its wake.   
“I just want you to be safe, Miss Emma.”  
She approached until she stood directly in front of me, her beautiful eyes shining with tears and made more brilliant by the red contrasting the emerald.   
“I know, Colin. And I need you to keep doing that. You are my friend, my confidante. You are everything I have right now. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”  
She put her arms around me and put her head against my chest. I could feel her crying.   
“Maybe when all this is over, we could go somewhere else. Live a new life, just you and I, Colin. Maybe I’ve just been in London too long.”  
Every last bit of resistance and anger melted completely away.


	10. Chapter 10

After crying for a bit all over Colin’s shirt, I managed to pull myself together, stood back up, and wiped the tears from my face with a determined sniffle.   
“There now, I’m done crying. No more tears, Colin! It won’t do to have puffy eyes when I am performing.” He gave me a gentle smile, and it did my old heart good to feel forgiven. Colin had not been himself since this case started, which was not surprising, considering it’s not every day that someone has to deal with a murder. I know he hated upsets to our routine. And I certainly cared about him enough to not wish for him to be upset. He was all I really had. But right now we had work to do. I headed towards my own room, but continued to talk to him as I went.  
“You should bring your black tuxedo, Colin. You look quite dashing in it. And pack a few more changes of clothes, just in case this takes more than a day or two. And a few mufflers and scarves and mittens. Edinburgh is always cold this time of year.”  
“Edinburgh is cold any time of year!” he called back. “And you don’t have to treat me as though I don’t know how to pack a suitcase!”  
I opened my era wardrobe, looking for one dress in particular. “Remember when we went to Bath when you were seven and you forgot your bathing suit? I tried to convince you that you needed to bathe naked just like the ancient Romans did.”  
There was a pause. “That still isn’t funny.”  
Ah, here it was. I pulled the dress from the back of the closet and admired it. It was black silk, perfect for a memorial, long and slender and had the most delicate of straps. It was fairly low-cut--rather scandalous when I had purchased it in 1932—but I had always adored it. The tiny flare at the bottom, letting the hem pool around my feet, I thought was a brilliant bit of design. I hadn’t had much of a chance to wear it since the early thirties. The war disrupted everything for a while, and it was formal enough that even my occasionally eclectic fashion taste prohibited it on for almost every occasion. But for this it would be perfect. I hadn’t told Colin, but I was going to be there not only to perform, but to distract. Men will tell a pretty girl things they would never tell another man.  
I carefully packed the dress, then went about choosing a few other outfits for the excursion. Then I went to my jewellery cabinet and carefully picked earrings, a wide rhinestone bracelet, and a rather large necklace set with rhinestones and a large emerald hanging from its centre. I rubbed at the long scar on my lower neck as I held it, lost in memory. Two hundred and nine years ago, my husband had given me that scar. It was the only memorial of any of my deaths, and it never went away. It stayed as a constant reminder of what I was and why I could never get close to anyone. Not ever again.   
I shook myself from my reverie and placed it and all the other jewellery, along with all of the perfect makeup, into a small case which I placed next to my suitcase and garment bag. I took a deep breath, going over my preparations to make sure they were complete, then picked up my bags and took them out to the sitting room.  
Colin was already there, sitting in his overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace, with a small suitcase already packed and sitting beside him. He looked over at the bags I hauled out with me.  
“I’m twice your size. How is it you have twice as much luggage as I do?”  
“A lady must be prepared.”  
He rolled his eyes as he stood, then managed to pick up everything but my jewellery case and handbag, which I grabbed, and we headed down to the car.

We arrived at Baker Street a few minutes later, and though Colin’s mood seemed to sober a bit upon arrival, he still seemed in better spirits than he had been since the murder. He stopped in front of the small, dark door labelled 221. I peered up at the door, wondering what kind of things went on in flat B. The smell of death and formaldehyde on Sherlock’s hands that morning made the proper me recoil at even the thought of what could go on up there. But the eternally curious part of me was more interested than I ever thought I could be.   
“Is he coming down?”  
I snapped out of my thoughts. “Oh, no I must go and get him.”  
“That would be easier if you would concede to getting a mobile phone.”  
I almost shook my head, but with all the new things I had been trying of late, I stopped myself. “Perhaps, after this, I may.”  
Colin raised his eyebrows. “Will wonders never cease.”  
“Would you mind just waiting in the car? It shouldn’t take long.”   
“If you take longer than five minutes, I’ll be coming up to fetch you.”  
I smiled at him and exited the car, went up the few steps to the door, and knocked.   
A pleasant looking older lady opened the door. “May I help you, dear?”  
I smiled pleasantly at her, perhaps more than I should have. I was in an unusually cheery mood. “I am here to see Mr. Holmes. My name is Emma Bedingfield. He is expecting me, I believe.”  
She looked a little confused. “Are you here about a case? People aren’t usually so cheery when they are here about a case.”  
“Oh!” I tried to calm my exuberance. “Of a sort. I’m assisting him and Dr. Watson on a case for Scotland Yard.”  
If anything she only looked more confused, but now she wasn’t so sure what to ask to stop the confusion. We both stood there for a moment awkwardly, then she seemed to recover. “Miss Bedingfield, was it? I’ll go tell him you’re here. Would you like to come in and wait for a bit where it’s warmer, dear?”  
While I wasn’t particularly chilled, I answered, “yes, thank you,” if for no other reason than to stop feeling Colin’s eyes boring into my back. She let me into the small foyer and went up the stairs, knocking on the door.   
I looked around the foyer. It was dark despite the frosted window in the door, and smelled of damp, old tobacco, and…I believe that was gunpowder. I stifled a laugh. I shouldn’t have expected anything less. The woman had entered the upstairs flat, and I could hear the muted tones of her voice, countered by the deeper cadence that could only be Sherlock. The conversation lasted only a moment, then she came back downstairs.  
“He says he’ll only be a moment, dear, and asked me to keep you occupied with a bit of conversation.” I think we mirrored each other’s puzzled looks. “My name is Mrs. Hudson; I’m his landlady.” She paused again, unsure of what else to say, but then her face lit up as she thought of something.  
“So, are you something of a detective as well?”  
“Oh, no. In fact, I’m something of a landlady as well. I own some tower flats not too far from here. My life is usually rather…mundane.”  
“Have you had much trouble with your tenants? The boys are nice enough, but they seem to attract some of the most unsavoury people.” She paused, thought about what she had said, and continued. “Oh, but some nice folks, too, of course. We get all types ‘round here.”  
I smiled again. I rather liked her. “I’m afraid my tenants tend to be rather boring. An occasional late payment or sneaking a cigarette, but nothing too exciting.”  
She nodded, again at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, we just don’t get a lot of nice women around here. I mean, who aren’t in a bit of trouble, you see.”  
I nodded. “It seems it would run with the territory, yes. But I’m sure you’re never at a loss for interesting stories, yes?”  
Now it was her turn to smile, but then the door to the upstairs flat opened and Sherlock emerged, carrying a small suitcase, a garment bag, and a violin case.   
“Oh!” said Mrs. Hudson. “Are you going somewhere, Sherlock?”  
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, we’re going to Edinburgh.”  
“On a case?”   
“Yes, and I may be gone a few days. If you go up to clean, don’t open the crisper drawer in the refrigerator.”  
“I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper, dear. But do have fun.”  
“I plan on it.”  
He opened the door and we exited the building.   
“Where’s the good doctor?” I asked.  
“He’s going to meet us at the airport. Had to run home and grab a few things.”  
I stopped dead halfway down the stairs. “The airport?”  
Colin was out, opening the boot of the car. “You didn’t tell him?”  
Sherlock stopped, looked at Colin and then at me. “You’re phobic of planes?”  
I tried not to show how nervous I suddenly was. “I wouldn’t call it phobic, really….”  
Sherlock laughed out loud. “Not twenty four hours ago you were examining a decapitated body without batting an eyelash, and now here you are, afraid of a aeroplane!”  
Colin was putting Sherlock’s luggage into the boot. “I’m always telling her it’s the safest way to travel, but she will have none of it.”  
“It’s not the death I’m afraid of,” I said defensively. “It’s the falling.”  
Sherlock climbed into the back seat and Colin opened the front passenger door for me. Reluctantly, I climbed in.   
“The train is only three and a half hours more time. And really, when you take security time into account, we’ve hardly lost an hour’s time.”  
Sherlock’s phone chimed with a text message, which he immediately checked.  
“You’re in luck. John says there aren’t any seats available to Edinburgh until the morning. Apparently there’s some sort of conference and all the flights are full. We can’t wait that long, so I guess we’re taking the train.”  
I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling my whole body loosen like cooked pasta. “Oh thank God.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the train to Edinburgh. John Watson's POV.

I was actually rather glad when the flights were full and Sherlock told me to meet them at the train station instead. It’s not that aeroplanes are bad. It’s that trains offer so much more freedom of movement. We ended up on the six o’clock train, all four of us seated in seats facing each other, Mr. Gidney and I in the window seats and Sherlock and Miss Bedingfield by the aisle. Colin was as reluctant to talk as ever, but at least for the first part of the trip his mood seemed to be better than it had been earlier in the day.   
Just a few minutes after the train had left the station, Sherlock and Miss Bedingfield started a little game between each other. It seemed to involve observing every person who passed our seats and seeing who could make deductions the fastest, or who could make a deduction that the other didn’t catch. At least those seemed to be the rules. As Sherlock didn’t say anything to me about it, I had to draw my own conclusion.   
“Artist, painter if I’m not mistaken, with a cat. Working on a new creation. Partner, no children.”  
“Salesman of industrial equipment, two children, married.”  
“Happily so.”  
These last words of Miss Bedingfield’s caught me off guard. Sherlock rarely remarked on happy people. I guess they had far less potential to be criminals, but I’m sure he had seen some happy relationships. He had to have.  
“What makes you think he’s happy?”  
“He has a spot of spit-up on his shoulder that he seems to have missed from a small child, so he spends time with his children. There appears to be a drawing from a slightly older child sticking out of his breast pocket, probably a note from a child to take with him on his sales trip. That is almost always a sign of love, and the fact that it is still there shows that it is dear to him as well. His wedding ring is well taken care of, there’s a touch of simple lip gloss—”  
“Well, give him time.”  
Miss Bedingfield’s face saddened. “Why such pessimism, Mr. Holmes?”  
“Just statistics and experience, Miss Bedingfield.”  
“Oh, but I think that particular man has greater odds than your random statistic. There is already evidence that he puts more time and work into his family relationships than average. I consider that far more telling to a lasting, happy relationship than fate or popular ideas of romantic love would have us believe.”  
Sherlock shrugged. “Romantic entanglements are a distraction. A vulnerability. And entirely overrated.”  
She gave a small smile. “Like good manners, Mr. Holmes? Both can grease the cogs of life, making the going a bit smoother. Not all relationships stem from weakness.”  
Sherlock made no reply, but was watching her with narrowed eyes.   
Mr. Gidney had kept his eyes focused outside the window through the entire exchange, his posture erect and proper, but his expression becoming decidedly more surly.   
I decided to chime in on the conversation. “You seem to have a great understanding of relationships for someone so young.”  
She looked away now, but whether being thoughtful or evasive I could not tell.   
“I am older than I seem.”  
She offered no other information, and for a number of minutes, the only sounds were the rhythm of the train and light chatter from other passengers.   
Sherlock broke the silence. “Indeed, you are many things you do not seem. I’ve done a bit of a check on you and have been able to find nothing. Nothing of any note whatsoever. You hardly seem that ordinary.”  
She stiffened, and even melancholy Mr. Gidney turned to face Sherlock, cast a worried glance at Emma, then back to Sherlock.   
“I choose to remain—what’s the term? Off the grid? Below the radar? No matter. I live such that my name does not appear in many databases.”  
“And why would that be, Miss Bedingfield? You hardly seem the paranoid, conspiracy theory sort. You seem pleasant, intelligent, talented, and proper. Added to your considerable beauty, I would expect to see you all over the society pages. Instead, you have only a skeleton of a presence in any records, and you stay at home with a ‘security engineer.’ What are you afraid of, Miss Bedingfield?”  
Mr. Gidney was frowning at Sherlock, shooting an occasional glance at Miss Bedingfield, who had crossed her arms in front of her chest. She returned Colin Gidney’s glance, with a bit of sorrow in her eyes rather than the fear and anger in his.   
“That…is none of your concern, Mr. Holmes.”  
“Sherlock.”  
She closed her eyes. There was definitely something she was most reluctant to share.   
“I tire of this game,” she finally said. “I’m going to see if I can find a paper.” She rose from her seat and headed down the aisle behind her seat.   
Colin’s glare to Sherlock was extremely stern. “Tread lightly, Mr. Holmes.”  
Sherlock’s tone to the bodyguard was harder than it had been to Miss Bedingfield. “I am sure you, as a computer security specialist employed as her sole servant, know nothing about the sparseness of her records.”  
Colin Gidney leaned forward, his face and stature making it a surprisingly threatening gesture. “Tread lightly.” He got up and followed after Miss Bedingfield.   
When he was out of earshot, I turned to Sherlock.   
“What was that all about? I know you love a good puzzle, but if we are working with them it hardly seems prudent to alienate them at this point in the investigation.”  
“I need to know if what she is afraid of poses a threat to us, John. I don’t like having mysteries on multiple ends of an investigation.”  
“Are you sure that’s it? I mean, The Woman has been gone for a while, and she caused more trouble than anything else, anyway. I haven’t seen you have this much fun with anyone. Ever. Not even me. I can’t play those games like she can. So I’m just asking—are you sure that’s the only reason you’re turning her into a puzzle, that you just solve and throw away?”  
“I’m surprised at you, John. Surely you know by now I don’t do ‘relationships.’ It’s ridiculous to even suggest such a thing.”  
I shrugged. “Have it your way, Sherlock. But I think that since I’ve left, you get lonely sometimes. I’ve seen it. Not just me, but Mary has seen it, too. I’m not saying you have to take her home to meet your parents. I’m just saying it might be nice if you had more than one friend.”  
He grunted and pulled out his phone. He wasn’t going to be answering me anytime soon.  
A few minutes later, Miss Bedingfield and Mr. Gidney came back and took their seats in silence. She had a paper with her, and, since there was little else to do, I watched her go through the whole thing, and then finish the crossword puzzle. In pen. In about a minute. Then she folded up the paper, put the pen away, and proceeded to stare over Mr. Gidney out the window for the remaining three hours of the trip.   
Sherlock was a fool.


End file.
